


Inner Demons of a Rebel Heart

by Major_Pocket



Category: Star Wars: Rebels
Genre: Angst and Feels, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, But it's there, Cussing, Gen, Kallus through Season 4, Kallus' Redemption, Kalluzeb is NOT the main focus, Minor Kanan Jarrus/Hera Syndulla, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-04
Updated: 2018-06-04
Packaged: 2019-05-18 02:24:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14843823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Major_Pocket/pseuds/Major_Pocket
Summary: Kallus thought he would die a traitor, but then Thrawn went planetside and put Pryce in command, and that was just too good an opening to ignore.He was starting to wish he had ignored it, though. As it turns out, being a rebel is a whole lot harder than being an instrument of genocide.**(Multi-chapter exploring Kallus' growth from season 3's finale to the Liberation of Lothal. Spoilers should be expected.)**





	Inner Demons of a Rebel Heart

 

It was a bad day.

Of course, after being found out as a spy, used, beaten, tortured, and forced to watch as people you were entrusted with protecting suddenly perish in fiery infernos, only to just barely escape with your own life with no clue as to where it was headed now, ‘bad day’ was an understatement.

The day had been _fucking awful._

There. That was a bit more accurate.

Kallus made it a point early on to avoid even looking at any of the rebels, secluding himself to a corner of the ship and staying there. He was still in uniform, and as _fucking awful_ as his day had been, he was willing to bet theirs was _abso-fucking-lutely horrendous_ , and he was an easy enough target to lay the blame on. He understood. It was, after all, _his_ fault, however indirectly, though he did his best not to linger on such thoughts.

The most he’d allowed was a brief, though entirely heartfelt thanks thrown Kanan’s way as the Jedi passed by. He hadn’t been able to thank anyone when he first arrived on the _Ghost_ , and he didn’t want any of the Spectres thinking he was as callous and ungrateful as his name suggested.

“ _Kanan...thank you. For taking me in.”_

_“Thank **you** _ _for risking...everything.”_

Kanan’s acknowledgement of his sacrifice, the trust and gratitude that poured out of his voice, it had made Kallus’ day a _tch_ bit better.

Once the Jedi had gone, he’d pressed himself further into his little corner, hugged himself more tightly, and promptly ignored the protests of his battered, aching body. He was convinced there wasn’t a single part of his body that _wasn’t_ bruised. Thrawn was apparently as thorough in his punishment as he was with everything else, but he refused to waste medical supplies.

The damage wasn’t just physical either, Kallus was starting to realize, but mental. Guilt and fear gnawed on the back of his mind, insistent and nearly overpowering him, because it was _his_ fault, Thrawn made sure he _knew_ it was his fault, _and what were the rebels going to do to him when they found out?_

_Deep breaths, Kallus. Deep breaths,_ he thought to himself, forcing his chest to rise and fall at a slow, even pace. He refused to let the _fear,_ the _doubt,_ take over. Not now, when everyone else had far better reasons to panic than he did, and not when he was so deserving for the way he felt. It wasn’t the first time he suddenly found himself grateful for his ISB training; fighting the natural urge to just _cry_ wasn’t something a lot of people were good at. He, however, was.

Maybe a little too good.

As he brutally squashed down the human side of himself, he slid slowly down to the floor, bum leg extended out in front of him, and closed his eyes. Some semblance of calmness took over. He heard footsteps pass by every now and then as rebels started to move out of the hall to find more comfortable spots to sit and rest (well away from the Imp, of course). Kallus was fine in his corner. He was even better when he peeled one eye open and saw no one was around.

He rested properly then, let his body relax as much as it possibly could, breathed more easily, more naturally. He wasn’t sure how long it was until someone intruded on his peace, a large, heavy, and familiarly warm body plopping down at his side with an audible thud and tired grunt.

“Here.”

Kallus opened an eye again. Saw a large, purple hand holding a ration bar out to him. As touched as he was by the gesture, he shook his head. “The rebels need it more.”

He could practically hear the roll of his companion’s eyes. “You’re a rebel now, too, y’know, whether you admit it or not.” Zeb poked his arm with the ration. “And I can hear your stomach growling. C’mon, take it. The others’ll get their share, don’t worry.”

Kallus opened both eyes then, and turned his head languidly to inspect both the ration and the lasat. The look on that alien purple face left no room for argument, so grudgingly, Kallus caved, and took what was offered. “Thanks…”

It was for more than just being fed, and Zeb knew that, judging from the way those wide green eyes softened. He nodded once in response, and almost in-sync, they tore open their respective bars and started to eat in what could only be described as companionable silence. Something Kallus hadn’t felt since…

Since Lyste.  

He banished the thought immediately.

The bar was halfway gone by the time Zeb spoke up again, a more than welcome distraction. “So, how’d you do it?”

The ex-agent quirked a brow. “Do what?” he asked as he took another bite.

“Escape.” Zeb was talking with his mouth full; Kallus made a mental note to teach him proper manners someday, because _ew._ At least he swallowed before he continued. “I mean, even if Thrawn wasn’t on board, it couldn’t have been easy getting off his ship. So how’d you do it?”

No questions about how he was injured, if his injuries were even bothering him, nothing about what happened, just ‘how’d you do it?’. Kallus leaned his head slowly back against the bulkhead and wondered if the lasat just...knew.

“Thrawn’s arrogance is to thank, really,” Kallus started eventually, finishing off his ration bar and crumbling up the wrapper. Zeb’s ears swiveled curiously in his direction, and he watched the movement, entranced. “He was so certain of his own success he decided to put Governor Pryce in charge of his fleet while he went planetside. Big mistake, that, since Pryce doesn’t exactly do well under pressure. When the second interdictor went out, she panicked. I...might have thrown a bit of snark her way, she made the order to throw me out the airlock, I knocked a few stormtroopers heads together, and now, here I am.”

The proud, amused smile on Garazeb’s face should _not_ have made Kallus feel so warm. The lasat chuckled, low and deep, and he threw a big, fuzzy arm around the human’s shoulders. Despite his better judgement, Kallus didn’t fight as he was tugged closer to Zeb’s side. “Heh. Took my advice and found a sense of humor, eh?”

“Oh, it was always there,” Kallus assured, “Something about facing execution just so happened to bring it out.” He sobered up suddenly. The small smile that had formed vanished, and he pried himself away from the warmth of the man beside him to look him in the eye. “I took _all_ of your advice, Garazeb. Allowing myself a sense of humor, chasing answers to questions I had…”

Zeb sobered as well, then, and he pulled his arm away to scratch the back of his head. “Yeah...kinda gathered as much,” he confessed. Kallus, again, quirked a brow. Zeb broke eye contact. “When we first found out you were Fulcrum, no one really wanted to believe it, y’know?”

Kallus put the pieces together. “And you did?” he asked, surprised. Zeb was the _last_ person he’d ever expect to defend him, even when he took Bahryn into consideration, but from the sound of things that’s exactly what happened.

“I mean...I guess. I’d hoped, anyway, that I’d somehow ...‘accidentally recruited’ you.” Zeb made eye contact again, and the hand fell from his head. “When we were stuck on that moon together, when you told me about how you got that bo-rifle, and about your first unit --” Kallus visibly cringed, and almost immediately Zeb brought his arm back around the man’s shoulders, tugged him in close. “Sorry, I know, bad memories. I’m just saying...I saw a good man back there. A blind man, maybe, but good. I’m glad you’re with us now. _Actually_ with us, and not stuck working for that blue bastard.”

Kallus’ shoulders slumped. Warmth spread through him again, uncomfortable and raw and making his eyes sting and his throat burn. “I’m not sure I am,” he confessed, voice barely a whisper, before he realized just what he said and scrambled for an explanation. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m relieved to have escaped, and I’m beyond grateful for what you and your crew are doing for me, for rescuing me, for even giving me a chance in the first place, but...what happens to me now?”

It was a question he dreaded asking. He knew there were defectors in the rebellion -- some of them of considerable rank, too -- but they’d never had an ISB agent defect before, and ISB agents should never be fully trusted. Kallus wasn’t even sure he trusted _himself._

To his horror, Zeb didn’t have an answer. The arm around him squeezed. “I don’t know, honestly. That’s up to higher command,” he said, “but you aren’t going to be executed, that’s for damn sure, not after all you’ve done, and I don’t think you’ll be tossed in a cell either. You’re too skilled to waste.” He paused momentarily, as though trying to conjure some other possibilities, before he looked Kallus over from head to toe, and dropped the topic completely. “Don’t worry about all that now, alright? Ya look like bantha shit.”

The sudden change of topic forced an amused snort out of the human. “I _feel_ like bantha shit.

“I bet.” Zeb stood up, and offered the man a paw. “C’mon. ‘Fresher’s free, last I checked. You wash up, and I’ll see if I can’t find ya some new clothes. Don’t want anyone getting the wrong idea.”

Zeb was distracting him, or trying to. Kallus didn’t take the bait necessarily -- uncertainty still clawed at the back of his mind like a rabid animal -- but he obliged the lasat nonetheless and took the offered hand up.

“Fine. I’ve outgrown this uniform, anyways.”

Zeb laughed, and like Kanan’s thanks from before, it made the day just a tch bit better.

 

* * *

 

Hot water streamed down his face and down the hard lines of his body. It was the best thing Kallus felt in a long, _long_ time.

He closed his eyes and savored it, just for a moment, allowing the steam that surrounded him to work wonders on his sore muscles. Zeb had been right when he said a shower would help him feel better. He could practically feel the stress bleed out of him, down and out the drain.

He could see real blood, too, go down the drain, a dark pinkish-brown, as it washed off his bodily wounds; it would have nauseated him if it weren’t already such a familiar sight.

Kallus would have loved to just stay there forever, and never again face the universe, but he knew that was impossible. He allowed himself a sigh of disappointment, then focused on scrubbing off the rest of the grime left clinging to his body -- he hissed at the pain in his ribs when he twisted -- before slowly stepping out. He shivered as the cold air hit his skin, goosebumps forming along his arms, and he looked around to see if Zeb had come through for him.

He did. On the counter by the door were some (hopefully) clean, neatly folded garments. He smiled briefly to himself, and grabbed a towel to dry himself off with before going to try them on.

Both the pants and shirt were not exactly a perfect fit for him, unfortunately, not that he expected them to be. The pants, while snug around the waist, were a tad too long (he could fix that by tucking them into his boots, he figured), and the long-sleeved white shirt slightly fell off the shoulders (but only slightly). Kallus hated it because it seemed too... _casual_ . Unprofessional. But it was so comfortable, and smelled so much like _Zeb,_ it didn’t take long for him to drop his complaints...

...Not that he cared about the whole ‘smelling like Zeb’ part, because he definitely shouldn’t -- _didn’t_ \-- care.

_Gods I’m a mess._

Kallus turned to the mirror. His wet blonde hair looked more disheveled than ever, but he refused to use anything belonging to the Spectres, so he simply raked his fingers through the locks. He settled for side part, most of the messy strands falling to one side of his head, one piece still dangling stubbornly over his brow. He huffed and blew it up, only for it to fall back down into the same, annoying spot. It was the best he could do.

When he finally stepped out the door to face the galaxy again, Kallus’s gaze immediately fell onto Zeb. He was leaning against the wall, eyes fixed on his toes, until the sound of the door closing forced him to look up. He smiled when he saw Kallus standing there, still dripping with water but looking substantially refreshed.

He smiled a lot, Kallus noticed. It wasn’t natural after such a hard day, but the ex-agent certainly wasn’t about to complain.

“Feel better?” the lasat asked as Kallus made his way over.

“I do.”

“Clothes fit alright?” Was the next question. Kallus shrugged, which only caused the sleeves to fall a bit more down his arms. Zeb chuckled as Kallus rushed to fix it. “Guess not. Sorry ‘bout that. Kanan’s clothes would probably fit better.”

Kallus shook his head. “No, these are perfectly fine for now,” he said. “The way I feel right now, I prefer the looser fitting clothes.” And with how lean Kanan was in comparison to himself, Kallus just knew the clothes would have been too tight, which would have only aggravated his injuries, and that would _not_ have been fun.

Zeb looked him over once more, eyes locking onto the exposed part of Kallus’ chest, where violent purple bruising blossomed. He frowned, ears falling back, and Kallus shifted uncomfortably. “I’m fine, Garazeb,” he tried to reassure him, hiking the shirt up higher over the bruising. “It looks worse than it is.”

Zeb, unconvinced, took a step closer, and tugged Kallus shirt back down. The ex-agent was helpless against the impromptu inspection, one large hand pulling the shirt slightly to the right to display more of Kallus’ pectoral muscle, and he did the same to the left a few moments later. “I dunno, Kal…” Zeb mumbled, and Kallus’ head spun at hearing _Kal._ “I mean, Kanan and Ezra bruise real easy -- scared me at first, you humans always seem so fragile -- but this is...it looks a lot worse.”

The bruising was definitely a lot worse than what was probably common amongst the Ghost’s crew, and on a much larger scale, but the last thing Kallus wanted was for Zeb to worry over him. His body, which had tensed up under Zeb’s careful scrutiny, relaxed, and he raised a hand to rest over the paw tugging his shirt.

“That’s because it is,” he confessed, trying to gently pull his paw away, but it wouldn’t budge. “I’m beyond sore, but I’ve had worse things happen, and I feel much better after the shower.” Zeb still didn’t look convinced, and Kallus internally cursed when the lasat gently turned his palm over to take his hand, inspecting the marks left behind by the binders.

“Karabast…” Zeb muttered, large thumb rubbing the human's wrists, then to Kallus’ surprise, he growled. “Thrawn’s gonna pay, y’know. For hurting you. Hurting all of us.”

“I know,” Kallus murmured, staring a little too intently at Zeb’s large fingers as they brushed chafed skin. Even with all that happened, Thrawn’s cunning and the Empire’s power, he knew the sadistic admiral would get what was coming to him. “Hopefully I’ll be there when it happens.”

“You will be,” Zeb responded immediately. He gave Kallus’ hand a gentle squeeze, then moved to hike the sleeve up higher, clearly intent on getting the full scope of his injuries.

He wouldn’t get the chance, however, as his com suddenly beeped, and Captain Syndulla’s voice came through. “Zeb, you still got Kallus with you?”

Zeb grumbled and pulled away. “Yeah, he’s here. Why?”

“Bring him up to the bridge. I want to talk to him before we land.”

Kallus’ stomach dropped.

Zeb frowned. He almost looked apologetic as he responded, “Alright, I’ll bring him up now.”

He pocketed the comlink and jerked his head for Kallus to follow him. “Don’t know why it can’t wait till we land,” he grumbled, “I want you to see the medical droid, and get some sleep, too. Things are gonna be a mad dash once we get to Yavin, and you look dead on your feet.”

“She probably wants to get my side of the story,” Kallus remarked as way of explanation. “I’m the only one who knows what happened on the other side after all.” Zeb glanced at him through the corner of his eye, and Kallus did his best to flash him a grin. “She deserves to know. I can rest afterward.”

“If you’re sure…” There was no more time to continue the conversation. The door to the cockpit opened, and inside Hera was waiting, looking more than a bit tired, but she held her poise regardless. Kallus respected that. There was no doubt in his mind she was a fine leader.

Kanan was there, too, standing by her side, a faithful guardian if there ever was one. He smiled politely to Kallus and nodded once in his direction.

“Kallus. Good to see you on your feet.” Hera smiled too, this one a much softer thing than anything Zeb or the Jedi could pull off. “I wanted to thank you.”

Kallus dead-panned. “Thank me?” he echoed. “For what?”

“For warning us. That transmission you sent --” _Oh, Force…_ “-- told us Thrawn was coming. We wouldn’t have had nearly as much time to prepare for the attack had it not come through.”

No. No no _no._

He should not be thanked for _that._

“It was because of my transmission he found you at all.” The words physically hurt him to say, strained his throat. The panic that had been building up in him ever since he got on the ship was intensifying, and he pushed it down with murderous intent. Hera quirked a brow, clearly seeking an explanation, and Kallus avoided looking into those beautifully green irises, focused on the wall instead, curled his toes within the confines of his boots.

“What do you mean?” It was Kanan who pressed the conversation, though his tone was more curious than accusatory. Gentle, even.

“When I sent that transmission, it was to warn you that he knew about the planned attack on Lothal,” Kallus started. His bum leg started to ache, and he sunk into the closest seat available to avoid the strain. He could feel Zeb shuffle closer to him, protective. Warm. “There was a meeting amongst higher command, one I hadn’t been invited to. I listened in, but I never suspected it could have been a trap, a ploy to drag me out of hiding.”

He shivered involuntarily. “I went to Bridger’s tower to make the transmission. Thrawn had followed, along with two deathtroopers. As I was recording he started to jam the transmission, and came forth to face me. I knew I needed to get the transmission out, so I fought him, broke the device during the struggle.” He laughed bitterly. “Exactly what he wanted me to do. He used the trajectory of my transmission, and that of Dodonna’s fleet, to find you. The loss of Chopper Base is _my_ fault. I’m sorry.”

Kallus looked to the floor and clutched his hands together. His heart was racing, and this time his training failed him. He found it hard to keep himself steady. Keep the tremors at bay. _Panic_ was winning.

 He didn’t see the three in the room exchange glances, and he only barely felt Hera’s gentle hand on his shoulder. “Kallus, it wasn’t your fault, so I want you to get that thought out of your head right now. Thrawn played you. There was no way you could have known.”

 “But I _should_ have known,” Kallus tried desperately to get her -- to get all of them -- to understand. “I should have been more careful. I knew how smart Thrawn was so I needed to be smarter, but I _wasn’t._ I --”

“Kallus,” it was Kanan’s voice now. He’d stepped up behind Hera. “Kallus, you need to breathe.”

The Jedi’s hand replaced Hera’s, and he felt the man kneel down in front of him. He tried to do as was asked -- he wasn’t so lost he didn’t understand -- but his ribs hurt too much. He shook his  head a little too quickly. His ears rang. 

“Breathe,” Kanan tried again. This time, Kallus did, like another power had taken a hold of him. He wondered if the Force was at play. He decided it didn’t matter if it was.

What mattered was breathing. He found his own rhythm again and closed his eyes, one hand instinctively reaching up and clamping onto the one Kanan had on his shoulder. “There you go,” the Jedi murmured.

Hera turned to Zeb. “Take him to your quarters, make sure he gets some sleep.”

“I will,” the lasat promised. A large paw replaced Kanan’s hand, and another went for the opposite arm, gently pulling him to his feet. “C’mon, bud. Got a nice soft bed for ya. We can rest and process everything there, away from everyone else, alright?”

Kallus could do nothing but nod dumbly. He hugged himself as his one maybe-friend in the universe guided him away.

He wanted to cry. And ISB agents weren't supposed to cry. 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Oof! First chapter finally out! I went through about seven different drafts trying to start this fic, and none of them were up to par. Even this one I'm kinda nervous about posting -- it's been a while since I've written anything beyond a simple one-shot -- but I figured...what's there to lose? 
> 
> Also, I want to make a note here: this is NOT a Kalluzeb-centric fic. It'll still be there, for sure, but as a very slow sub-plot. This story will mainly focus on Kallus as a character, and how he deals with his new life as a rebel. 
> 
> Let me know what you think! Hopefully chapter 2 will be out soon!


End file.
